Delphi Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Illustrated) (293 page)

“You don’t believe what you say,” I cried; “if you really thought humanity was going your way, you would have been delighted to play Galileo. Instead of writing a book in prison condemning your companion who pushed you to discovery and disgrace, you would have written a book vindicating your actions. ‘I am a martyr,’ you would have cried, ‘and not a criminal, and everyone who holds the contrary is wrong.’

“You would have said to the jury:

“‘In spite of your beliefs, and your cherished dogmas; in spite of your religion and prejudice and fanatical hatred of me, you are wrong and I am right: the world does move.’

“But you didn’t say that, and you don’t think it. If you did you would be glad you went into the Queensberry trial, glad you were accused, glad you were imprisoned and punished because all these things must bring your vindication more quickly; you are sorry for them all, because in your heart you know you were wrong. This old world in the main is right: it’s you who are wrong.”

“Of course everything can be argued, Frank; but I hold to my conviction: the best minds even now don’t condemn us, and the world is becoming more tolerant.
I didn’t justify myself in court because I was told I should be punished lightly if I respected the common prejudices, and when I tried to speak afterwards the judge would not let me.”

“And I believe,” I retorted, “that you were hopelessly beaten and could never have made a fight of it, because you felt the Time-spirit was against you. How else was a silly, narrow judge able to wave you to silence? Do you think he could have silenced me? Not all the
judges in Christendom. Let me give you an example. I believe with Voltaire that when modesty goes out of life it goes into the language as prudery. I am quite certain that our present habit of not discussing sexual questions in our books is bound to disappear, and that free and dignified speech will take the place of our present prurient mealy-mouthedness. I have long thought it possible, probable even, in the present state of society in England, where we are still more or less under the heel of the illiterate and prudish Philistinism of our middle class, that I might be had up to answer some charge of publishing an indecent book. The current of the time appears to be against me. In the spacious days of Elizabeth, in the modish time of the Georges, a freedom of speech was habitual which to-day is tabooed. Our cases, therefore, are somewhat alike. Do you think I should dread the issue or allow myself to be silenced by a judge? I would set forth my defence before the judge and before the jury with the assurance of victory in me! I should not minimise what I had written; I should not try to explain it away; I should seek to make it stronger. I should justify every word, and finally I’d warn both judge and jury that if they condemned and punished me they would only make my ultimate triumph more conspicuous.
‘All the great men of the past are with me,’ I would cry; ‘all the great minds of to-day in other countries, and some of the best in England; condemn me at your peril: you will only condemn yourselves. You are spitting against the wind and the shame will be on your own faces.’

“Do you believe I should be left to suffer? I doubt it even in England to-day. If I’m right, and I’m sure I’m right, then about me there would be an invisible cloud of witnesses. You would see a strange movement of opinion in my favour. The judge would probably lecture me and bind me over to come up for judgment; but if he sentenced me vindictively then the Home Secretary
would be petitioned and the movement in my favour would grow, till it swept away opposition. This is the very soul of my faith. If I did not believe with every fibre in me that this poor stupid world is honestly groping its way up the altar stairs to God, and not down, I would not live in it an hour.”

“Why do you argue against me, Frank? It is brutal of you.”

“To induce you even now to turn and pull
yourself out of the mud. You are forty odd years of age, and the keenest sensations of life are over for you. Turn back whilst there’s time, get to work, write your ballad and your plays, and not the Alexanders alone, but all the people who really count, the best of all countries — the salt of the earth — will give you another chance. Begin to work and you’ll be borne up on all hands: No one sinks to the dregs but by his own weight. If you don’t bear fruit why should men care for you?”

He shrugged his shoulders and turned from me with disdainful indifference.

“I’ve done enough for their respect, Frank, and received nothing but hatred. Every man must dree his own weird. Thank Heaven, life’s not without compensations. I’m sorry I cannot please you,” and he added carelessly, “M —— has asked me to go and spend the summer with him at Gland in Switzerland.
He
does not mind whether I write or not.”

“I assure you,” I cried, “it is not my pleasure I am thinking about. What can it matter to me whether you write or not? It is your own good I am thinking of.”

“Oh, bother good! One’s friends like one as one is; the outside public hate one or scoff at one as they please.”

“Well, I hope I shall always be your friend,”
I replied, “but you will yet be forced to see, Oscar, that everyone grows tired of holding up an empty sack.”

“Frank, you insult me.”

“I don’t mean to; I’m sorry; I shall never be so brutally frank again; but you had to hear the truth for once.”

“Then, Frank, you only cared for me in so far as I agreed with you?”

“Oh, that’s not fair,” I replied. “I have tried with all my strength to prevent you committing soul-suicide, but if you are resolved on it, I can’t prevent you. I must draw away. I can do no good.”

“Then you won’t help me for the rest of the winter?”

“Of course I will,” I replied, “I shall do all I promised and more; but there’s a limit now, and till now the only limit was my power, not my will.”

It was at Napoule a few days later that an incident occurred which gave me to a certain extent a new sidelight on Oscar’s nature by showing just what he thought of me. I make no scruple of setting forth his opinion here in its entirety, though the confession took place after a futile evening when he had talked to M —— of great houses in England and the great people he had met there. The talk had evidently
impressed M —— as much as it had bored me. I must first say that Oscar’s bedroom was separated from mine by a large sitting-room we had in common. As a rule I worked in my bedroom in the mornings and he spent a great deal of time out of doors. On this especial morning, however, I had gone into the sitting-room early to write some letters. I heard him get up and splash about in his bath: shortly afterwards he must have gone into the next room, which was M — — ‘s, for suddenly he began talking to him in a loud voice from one room to the other, as if he were carrying on a conversation already begun, through the open door.

“Of course it’s absurd of Frank talking of social position or the great people of English society at all. He never had any social position to be compared with mine!” (The petulant tone made me smile; but what Oscar said was true: nor did I ever pretend to have such a position.)

“He had a house in Park Lane and owned
The Saturday Review
and had a certain power; but I was the centre of every party, the most honoured guest everywhere, at Clieveden and Taplow Court and Clumber. The difference was Frank was proud of meeting Balfour while Balfour was proud of meeting me: d’ye see?” (I was so interested I was unconscious of any indiscretion in listening: it made me smile to hear
that I was proud of meeting Arthur Balfour: it would never have occurred to me that I should be proud of that: still no doubt Oscar was right in a general way).

“When Frank talks of literature, he amuses me: he pretends to bring new standards into it; he does: he brings America to judge Oxford and London, much like bringing Macedon or Boeotia to judge Athens — quite ridiculous! What can Americans know about English literature?...

“Yet the curious thing is he has read a lot and has a sort of vision: that Shakespeare stuff of his is extraordinary; but he takes sincerity for style, and poetry as poetry has no appeal for him. You heard him admit that himself last night....

“He’s comic, really: curiously provincial like all Americans. Fancy a Jeremiad preached by a man in a fur coat! Frank’s comic. But he’s really kind and fights for his friends. He helped me in prison greatly: sympathy is a sort of religion to him: that’s why we can meet without murder and separate without suicide....

“Talking literature with him is very like playing Rugby football.... I never did play football, you know; but talking literature with Frank must be very like playing Rugby where you end by being kicked violently through your own goal,” and he laughed delightedly.

I had listened without thinking as I often lis
tened to his talk for the mere music of the utterance; now, at a break in the monologue, I went into the next room, feeling that to listen consciously would be unworthy. On the whole his view of me was not unkindly: he disliked to hear any opinion that differed from his own and it never came into his head that Oxford was no nearer the meridian of truth than Lawrence, Kansas, and certainly at least as far from Heaven.

Some weeks later I left La Napoule and went on a visit to some friends. He wrote complaining that without me the place was dull. I wired him and went over to Nice to meet him and we lunched together at the Café de la Regence. He was terribly downcast, and yet rebellious. He had come over to stay at Nice, and stopped at the Hotel Terminus, a tenth-rate hotel near the station; the proprietor called on him two or three days afterwards and informed him he must leave the hotel, as his room had been let.

“Evidently someone has told him, Frank, who I am. What am I to do?”

I soon found him a better hotel where he was well treated, but the incident coming on top of the Alexander affair seemed to have frightened him.

“There are too many English on this coast,”
he said to me one day, “and they are all brutal to me. I think I should like to go to Italy if you would not mind.”

“The world is all before you,” I replied. “I shall only be too glad for you to get a comfortable place,” and I gave him the money he wanted. He lingered on at Nice for nearly a week. I saw him several times. He lunched with me at the Reserve once at Beaulieu, and was full of delight at the beauty of the bay and the quiet of it. In the middle of the meal some English people came in and showed their dislike of him rudely. He at once shrank into himself, and as soon as possible made some pretext to leave. Of course I went with him. I was more than sorry for him, but I felt as unable to help him as I should have been unable to hold him back if he had determined to throw himself down a precipice.

CHAPTER XX
V

“The Gods are just and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.”

It was full summer before I met Oscar again; he had come back to Paris and taken up his old quarters in the mean little hotel in the Rue des Beaux Arts. He lunched and dined with me as usual. His talk was as humorous and charming as ever, and he was just as engaging a companion. For the first time, however, he complained of his health:

“I ate some mussels and oysters in Italy, and they must have poisoned me; for I have come out in great red blotches all over my arms and chest and back, and I don’t feel well.”

“Have you consulted a doctor?”

“Oh, yes, but doctors are no good: they all advise you differently; the best of it is they all listen to you with an air of intense interest when you are talking about yourself — which is an excellent tonic.”

“They sometimes tell one what’s the matter; give a name and significance to the unknown,” I interjected.

“They bore me by forbidding me to smoke
and drink. They are worse than M —— , who grudged me his wine.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in wonder.

“A tragi-comic history, Frank. You were so right about M —— and I was mistaken in him. You know he wanted me to stay with him at Gland in Switzerland, begged me to come, said he would do everything for me. When the weather got warm at Genoa I went to him. At first he seemed very glad to see me and made me welcome. The food was not very good, the drink anything but good, still I could not complain, and I put up with the discomforts. But in a week or two the wine disappeared, and beer took its place, and I suggested I must be going. He begged me so cordially not to go that I stayed on; but in a little while I noticed that the beer got less and less in quantity, and one day when I ventured to ask for a second bottle at lunch he told me that it cost a great deal and that he could not afford it. Of course I made some decent pretext and left his house as soon as possible. If one has to suffer poverty, one had best suffer alone. But to get discomforts grudgingly and as a charity is the extremity of shame. I prefer to look on it from the other side; M —— grudging me his small beer belongs to farce.”

He spoke with bitterness and contempt, as he used never to speak of anyone.

I could not help sympathising with him, though visibly the cloth was wearing threadbare. He asked me now at once for money, and a little later again and again. Formerly he had invented pretexts; he had not received his allowance when he expected it, or he was bothered by a bill and so forth; but now he simply begged and begged, railing the while at fortune. It was distressing. He wanted money constantly, and spent it as always like water, without a thought.

I asked him one day whether he had seen much of his soldier boy since he had returned to Paris.

“I have seen him, Frank, but not often,” and he laughed gaily. “It’s a farce-comedy; sentiment always begins romantically and ends in laughter —
tabulae solvuntur risu
. I taught him so much, Frank, that he was made a corporal and forthwith a nursemaid fell in love with his stripes. He’s devoted to her: I suppose he likes to play teacher in his turn.”

“And so the great romantic passion comes to this tame conclusion?”

“What would you, Frank? Whatever begins must also end.”

“Is there anyone else?” I asked, “or have you learned reason at last?”

“Of course there’s always someone else, Frank: change is the essence of passion: the
reason
you talk of is merely another name for impotence.”

“Montaigne declares,” I said, “that love belongs to early youth, ‘the next period after infancy,’ is his phrase, but that is at the best a Frenchman’s view of it. Sophocles was nearer the truth when he called himself happy in that age had freed him from the whip of passion. When are you going to reach that serenity?”

“Never, Frank, never, I hope: life without desire would not be worth living to me. As one gets older one is more difficult to please: but the sting of pleasure is even keener than in youth and far more egotistic.

“One comes to understand the Marquis de Sade and that strange, scarlet story of de Retz — the pleasure they got from inflicting pain, the curious, intense underworld of cruelty— “

“That’s unlike you, Oscar,” I broke in. “I thought you shrank from giving pain always: to me it’s the unforgivable sin.”

“To me, also,” he rejoined instantly, “intellectually one may understand it; but in reality it’s horrible. I want my pleasure unembittered by any drop of pain. That reminds me: I read a terrible, little book the other day, Octave Mirbeau’s ‘Le Jardin des Supplices’; it is quite awful, a
sadique
joy in pain pulses through it; but for all that it’s wonderful. His soul seems
to have wandered in fearsome places. You with your contempt of fear, will face the book with courage — I— “

“I simply couldn’t read it,” I replied; “it was revolting to me, impossible— “

“A sort of grey adder,” he summed up and I nodded in complete agreement.

I passed the next winter on the Riviera. A speculation which I had gone in for there had caused me heavy loss and much anxiety. In the spring I returned to Paris, and of course, asked him to meet me. He was much brighter than he had been for a long time. Lord Alfred Douglas, it appeared, had come in for a large legacy from his father’s estate and had given him some money, and he was much more cheerful. We had a great lunch at Durand’s and he was at his very best. I asked him about his health.

“I’m all right, Frank, but the rash continually comes back, a ghostly visitant, Frank: I’m afraid the doctors are in league with the devil. It generally returns after a good dinner, a sort of aftermath of champagne. The doctors say I must not drink champagne, and must stop smoking, the silly people, who regard pleasure as their natural enemies; whereas it is our pleasures which provide them with a living!”

He looked fairly well, I thought; he was a little fatter, his skin a little dingier than of old,
and he had grown very deaf, but in every other way he seemed at his best, though he was certainly drinking too freely — spirits between times as well as wine at meals.

I had heard on the Riviera during the winter that Smithers had tried to buy a play from him, so one day I brought up the subject.

“By the way, Smithers says that you have been working on your play; you know the one I mean, the one with the great screen scene in it.”

“Oh, yes, Frank,” he remarked indifferently.

“Won’t you tell me what you’ve done?” I asked. “Have you written any of it?”

“No, Frank,” he replied casually, “it’s the scenario Smithers talked about.”

A little while afterwards he asked me for money. I told him I could not afford any at the moment, and pressed him to write his play.

“I shall never write again, Frank,” he said. “I can’t, I simply can’t face my thoughts. Don’t ask me!” Then suddenly: “Why don’t you buy the scenario and write the play yourself?”

“I don’t care for the stage,” I replied; “it’s a sort of rude encaustic work I don’t like; its effects are theatrical!”

“A play pays far better than a book, you know— “

But I was not interested. That evening thinking over what he had said, I realised all at once that a story I had in mind to write would
suit “the screen scene” of Oscar’s scenario; why shouldn’t I write a play instead of a story? When we met next day I broached the idea to Oscar:

“I have a story in my head,” I said, “which would fit into that scenario of yours, so far as you have sketched it to me. I could write it as a play and do the second, third and fourth acts very quickly, as all the personages are alive to me. Could you do the first act?”

“Of course I could, Frank.”

“But,” I said, “will you?”

“What would be the good, you could not sell it, Frank.”

“In any case,” I went on, “I could try; but I would infinitely prefer you to write the whole play if you would; then it would sell fast enough.”

“Oh, Frank, don’t ask me.”

The idea of the collaboration was a mistake; but it seemed to me at the moment the best way to get him to do something. Suddenly he asked me to give him £50 for the scenario at once, then I could do what I liked with it.

After a good deal of talk I consented to give him the £50 if he would promise to write the first act; he promised and I gave him the money.

A little later I noticed a certain tension in his relations with Lord Alfred Douglas. One day
he told me frankly that Lord Alfred Douglas had come into a fortune of £15,000 or £20,000, “and,” he added, “of course he’s always able to get money. He’ll marry an American millionairess or some rich widow” (Oscar’s ideas of life were nearly all conventional, derived from novels and plays); “and I wanted him to give me enough to make my life comfortable, to settle enough on me to make a decent life possible to me. It would only have cost him two or three thousand pounds, perhaps less. I get £150 a year and I wanted him to make it up to £300.
I lost that through going to him at Naples. I think he ought to give me that at the very least, don’t you? Won’t you speak to him, Frank?”

“I could not possibly interfere,” I replied.

“I gave him everything,” he went on, in a depressed way. “When I had money, he never had to ask for it; all that was mine was his. And now that he is rich, I have to beg from him, and he gives me small sums and puts me off. It is terrible of him; it is really very, very wrong of him.”

I changed the subject as soon as I could; there was a note of bitterness which I did not like, which indeed I had already remarked in him.

I was destined very soon to hear the other side. A day or two later Lord Alfred Douglas
told me that he had bought some racehorses and was training them at Chantilly; would I come down and see them?

“I am not much of a judge of racehorses,” I replied, “and I don’t know much about racing; but I should not mind coming down one evening. I could spend the night at an hotel, and see the horses and your stable in the morning. The life of the English stable lads in France must be rather peculiar.”

“It is droll,” he said, “a complete English colony in France. There are practically no French jockeys or trainers worth their salt; it is all English, English slang, English ways, even English food and of course English drinks. No French boy seems to have nerve enough to make a good rider.”

I made an arrangement with him and went down. I missed my train and was very late; I found that Lord Alfred Douglas had dined and gone out. I had my dinner, and about midnight went up to my room. Half an hour later there came a knocking at the door. I opened it and found Lord Alfred Douglas.

“May I come in?” he asked. “I’m glad you’ve not gone to bed yet.”

“Of course,” I said, “what is it?” He was pale and seemed extraordinarily excited.

“I have had such a row with Oscar,” he jerked out, nervously moving about (I noticed
the strained white face I had seen before at the Café Royal), “such a row, and I wanted to speak to you about it. Of course you know in the old days when his plays were being given in London he was rich and gave me some money, and now he says I ought to settle a large sum on him; I think it ridiculous, don’t you?”

“I would rather not say anything about it,” I replied; “I don’t know enough about the circumstances.”

He was too filled with a sense of his own injuries; too excited to catch my tone or understand any reproof in my attitude.

“Oscar is really too dreadful,” he went on; “he is quite shameless now; he begs and begs and begs, and of course I have given him money, have given him hundreds, quite as much as he ever gave me: but he is insatiable and recklessly extravagant besides. Of course I want to be quite fair to him: I’ve already given him back all he gave me. Don’t you think that is all anyone can ask of me?”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“That is for you and Oscar,” I said, “to decide together. No one else can judge between you.”

“Why not?” he snapped out in his irritable way, “you know us both and our relations.”

“No,” I replied, “I don’t know all the obligations and the interwoven services. Besides, I could not judge fairly between you.”

He turned on me angrily, though I had spoken with as much kindness as I could.

“He seemed to want to make you judge between us,” he cried. “I don’t care who’s the judge. I think if you give a man back what he has given you, that is all he can ask. It’s a d —— d lot more than most people get in this world.”

After a pause he started off on a new line of thought:

“The first time I ever noticed any fault in Oscar was over that ‘Salome’ translation. He’s appallingly conceited. You know I did the play into English. I found that his choice of words was poor, anything but good; his prose is wooden....

“Of course he’s not a poet,” he broke off contemptuously, “even you must admit that.”

“I know what you mean,” I replied; “though I should have to make a vast reservation in favour of the man who wrote ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol.’”

“One ballad doesn’t make a man a poet,” he barked; “I mean by poet one to whom verse lends power: in that sense he’s not a poet and I am.” His tone was that of defiant challenge.